


scars

by wendydarlings



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canonical Child Abuse, Child Abuse, F/M, M/M, Suicide Attempt, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2020-01-06 04:59:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18381443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendydarlings/pseuds/wendydarlings
Summary: harry is known for his scars.





	scars

When Harry is five, his vision starts to wear.

 

Other children will just scoot closer to the TV and get numbers wrong, but Harry is ruining meals because he can’t read or serving expired food because the dates are printed too thin, mixing up laundry detergent and bleach, and it’s more of a problem.

 

So, Petunia does what she’s never done before and takes Harry to the doctor, who first balks at the empty vaccination history before writing a referral to the optometrist. Dudley trashes the waiting room and takes Harry’s lollipop earned for sitting through the needles and they go.

 

The optometrist smiles kindly when he can’t decide which options are clearer. By the time they’re finished, Petunia has picked out the cheapest pair of spectacles—round, flimsy, too big for his face.  The optometrist warns he will need to come back every year or so for new prescriptions and Petunia snorts. She doesn’t apologize for the pairs of crushed frames Dudley is responsible for but pulls them out of the store, Dudley somehow with another lollipop.

 

When Vernon spots the copay on the bills he turns so purple Harry thinks his uncle might finally die. He skims over damage done by his son and grabs Harry by the ear, shoving him into the broom closet under the stairs so hard Harry smacks his head against a shelf corner. Vernon locks him in there, in the dark, and Harry spends the night with fingers pressed to the wound behind his ear.

 

It’s his first night in the cupboard. Before that, he’s slept on the coach in the sun room; a little parlor in the back of the house that is more out of the way than the living room. It has a dusty piano in it and sometimes he used to run his hands above the keys, never knowing what they sounded like because of the terror he might wake someone up but just imagining. Tonight, though, he curls up on the floor, breathing in the dust and wondering which species of bugs is crawling on his skin.

 

After that, Vernon decides that Harry is more household equipment than person and moves him in. Harry gets his second ever scar and his first pair of glasses that somehow never need an updated prescription.

 

* * *

Harry Hunting days come without notice or predictability. Sometimes, he manages to outrun them but today is not a lucky one. Harry supposes he simply woke up on the wrong side of his cupboard. Piers has got Harry’s arms twisted behind his back, and Dudley is ready for a punch. They caught him on the playground equipment, in the small tower with the pirate wheel and telescope.  He’s taken his glasses of at least, hidden in his trouser pocket.

 

Dudley cocks his arm and hits him once in the nose. Piers roars with laughter, Harry can feel him shaking with it. When Dudley goes for a second one Harry stomps on Pier’s feet; he buckles and Harry ducks the punch. Malcom is standing at the bottom of the fireman’s pole, yelling up, and Gordon is watching the exit via the slide. But if Harry can somehow get down off the tower, he can run. So, he stomps again on Piers for good measure and slips out of his grasp, running toward the fake wooden bridge and slides in the gap between the planks and railing, falling the story to the playground barked ground below. There’s a sickening crunch from his right arm which is caught underneath him. The gang on the ground moves in on him and Piers and Dudley crash into each other deciding who first will slide down the fireman’s pole. Harry stumbles to his feet and runs. None of the gang regularly participate in PE at school, and he has the added adrenaline from what he will realise later is a broken bone.

 

He manages to get inside the house and lock himself in his cupboard. A cowardly move, but his right arm is starting to hurt like hell and he can’t move it at all. After a couple hours, he comes out to cook dinner, which takes a long time one-handed. Petunia demands to know why it’s taking so long. Harry shows her his arm. Petunia stares at it and then, light-lipped, takes him to the doctor again, ordering pizza for Vernon and Dudley. Before they leave, she puts him in different clothes, brushes his hair and cleans up the bleeding nose so this time the doctor’s will “mind their business” and not ask too many questions about where the injury came from.

 

It’s so broken that they have to do minor surgery, putting a pin in the bone, whatever that means. Harry cries a lot, which is embarrassing.

 

He has a wide scar up the inside of his forearm. He has to wear a cast: on the bright side, it gets him out of household duties because it takes him too long to do anything. On the other hand, he spends more time trying to hide from Dudley’s gang, who think him a way easier target. But somehow, he keeps running into Mrs Figg, who pulls him into her house and tells him long stories about nothing while he politely tries to hold in sneezes from the cats. Poor thing, he thinks. She’s very lonely.

 

* * *

When he’s ten, Vernon has a new associate at the firm. He is soft and his eyes are crinkled. He asks for Harry to join them for dinner, which the Dursley’s think is outrageous, but they let him set a place for himself. Vernon’s associate tells Harry to call him Alexander. Alexander brings him presents every time he comes for dinner; a pack of cards, a spinning top, a _jumper_ brand new and _never worn_. Harry can’t believe it. He wears the jumper to sleep and to school and washes it himself. It’s got a yellow cartoon character on it, balding and wiry-haired. Privately, Harry thinks it looks a bit like an older Dudley.

 

He looks forward to when Alexander visits, which is becoming more and more often. One night he stays over in the guest room and in the middle of the night Harry hears the stairs creak above his head and lights turn on in the kitchen. From his cupboard, he smells toast. There’s a knock on his door.

 

Harry has seven pieces of toast and Alexander teaches him how to play poker with biscuits as chips. Alexander even makes him tea, with honey and everything.

 

When the sun is poking through the kitchen window and Harry’s eyes droop, Alexander folds his hands on his belly and says, “are you happy here?”.

 

Harry doesn’t understand the question. “I live here.”

 

Alexander’s mouth twitches. He looks at the clock. “I think you should go back to bed.”

 

Harry nods. Before he leaves, Alexander kisses him on the lips. Harry touches his mouth in the dark, feeling suddenly different.

 

For the next month, Alexander stays the night every weekend and he and Harry play poker all night. When Alexander wins, Harry has to kiss him. When Harry wins, Alexander must kiss Harry. Alexander wins most of the time. The kisses get sloppier. Tongues feel weird, Harry finds out. They stop playing poker at all and Alexander holds Harry and kisses him all over his face and slides his plump hands under Harry’s brand-new T-shirt.  One night, Alexander takes off his trousers and grabs Harry’s too-thin wrist. Harry doesn’t know why he cries that night, or all through school the next day, because he likes the presents and the company and Alexander even helps him with homework sometimes.

 

A couple months before Harry turns eleven, Alexander says they are going to run away together. He won’t have to stay in a closet anymore, they can sleep in a bed and he can get new things all the time. That morning, Petunia hit him on the back of the heat with the frying pan. Harry says yes.

 

He packs all the gifts into a satchel bag, also a present, and that night Alexander knocks on his door. Alexander grips Harry very tightly and they walk into the street.

 

The moment they cross the garden into the street there is the sound of a car alarm. A lot of things happen very quickly. First, all the streetlights go out. Then there is a yowl of a cat and Harry is knocked to the ground; the animal sinks its claws into his chest. It’s very strong for a cat; Harry tries to move it off but it won’t budge and when Alexander attempts to shove it off the cat begins to yowl again, very loudly, louder than the car alarm that keeps going off. Harry looks into its yellow eyes, marked with black and then yells when the cat starts to shred his arm.

 

His yelling and the car alarm and the yowling brings the Dursleys out, brings the neighbours out, brings even Mrs Figg out, who lives streets away so everything must be very loud. Petunia eyes the cat, eyes the bags and Alexander. She kicks the cat and it skulks off.

 

Later, as Harry curls up back in his cupboard, arm bandaged, he hears Petunia and Vernon arguing in the kitchen.

 

“How was I supposed to know he was a freak?” Vernon shouts.

 

“He was in the same house as Duddy,” Petunia whimpers. “Oh god, I don’t even want to _think_ —“

 

“The boy probably did something to him,” Vernon says. “Spelled him or something.”

 

Harry traces where he knows the marks lie under the bandage. Strange, he thinks. The wounds are concentrated, only on his bicep. Before Harry drifts off, he thinks it was almost like the cat didn’t want to hurt him: just force him to call for help.

 

* * *

 

 Harry dies with Cedric.

 

That’s what it feels like, anyway.

 

He knows Ron and Hermione are worried. He does nothing to put them at ease. In fact, he sort of revels in it. Not eating and watching them look at each other like he’s their petulant child. Lying awake and glaring at Ron when he peeks through the curtains of the four poster to see if he’s finally sleeping. He knows they’re trying to help. But there’s something in this self-destruction that feels… right. Why should he get to live a normal life, anyway? Why should he get to _live?_

 

He decides to do it a couple days before the end of term. Ron and Hermione are playing chess and have made him sit with them. He watches Ron take her queen and thinks about the Yule Ball. Thinks about RonandHermione in the way he knows they’ll be.

 

They’ll be fine. And he doesn’t care about anyone else, anyway. Maybe Sirius. But Sirius has lost two Potters already, and what’s one more.

 

He doesn’t know if there are magic ways to doing it, so he thinks he’ll keep it simple. He has Sirius’s knife. No note, he thinks. The reason why has always been written on his forehead, on his body. When he locks himself in the bathroom he almost wishes he could say goodbye to Hedwig, but she’ll figure it out. One of the Weasleys can have her. He owes them that much.

 

He’s only done the left when there’s a knock on the door.

 

“Harry,” comes Ron’s voice. “You alright, mate? I think something was off today at breakfast, Fred’s feeling shit, too.”

 

Harry tries to quieten his breathing. His wrist is hot, his robes are soaked, and he can’t grip the knife properly.

 

Another knock. “D’you want water or something?”

 

His vision blurs. He closes his eyes, he sees the green light; _kill the spare_.

 

The third knock is more insistent. “Harry?” Ron’s voice is suddenly taut. “Harry, seriously, you alright?”

 

The last thing he sees before he passes out is Ron pushing the door open and slipping on the blood; yells of “oh fuck, fuck, fuck, _fuck_ —“.

 

He wakes up in the hospital wing. He hears crying. If he keeps his eyes closed, he can pretend that it worked. He can pretend there will be no more Dursleys, no more reliving the graveyard every night, waking up in sweats to do the whole thing again.

 

He opens his eyes. Ron has his face in his hands. He’s shaking. Hermione is staring at him and when she sees he’s woken up her whole body flinches like she wants to throw herself at him; he’s not sure whether to fight or to embrace.

 

“ _Harry_ ,” she whispers.

 

 Ron looks up. “You git,” he says. Harry doesn’t know whether he’s ever seen Ron cry before. “You absolute bloody _git_ , what the _hell_ did you do that for?”

 

Harry doesn’t answer, just rolls his sleeves up. The skin’s perfect except for a thin scar, already old.

 

“Pomfrey said you used a magic knife, couldn’t stop the scar,” Ron says, almost angrily. “You _stupid_ —“

 

“Ron,” Hermione admonishes.

 

He doesn’t even need a full night in the wing before returning to the dorm. Nobody knows this development, the first time he’s ever had a secret from the whole school. Hermione had the idea to cover him with the invisibility cloak before taking him to the wing.

 

That night, he pulls the curtains as tight as he can, keeps his eyes on the ceiling so he doesn’t close them and see green. Gently, Ron parts the hangings, but instead of just looking him over he redoes the curtains behind him and slips into bed.

 

For some reason, Harry’s breathing hitches and he thinks he nearly cries. “I don’t need a babysitter,” Harry hisses, but it’s not how he feels at all, he wants Ron to stay, he wants him there every night and he has no idea why.

 

“Maybe I do,” Ron replies. When wakes in the morning Ron has his arms locked around him. Harry breathes out.

 

* * *

 

 He’s right to dread when Ron tells Hermione about _I must not tell lies_.  They’re outraged, they’re indignant and he doesn’t want to look Ron in the eyes. Helping him in and out of pajamas when he lost the bones in his arm, or after the graveyard, or nights spent in the same bed because Ron is possessive, he likes to count the things he owns and keep them near: Ron has seen all the other scars Hermione hasn’t. He doesn’t know the stories but he knows Harry is more marked than this and it’s frankly embarrassing. He doesn’t like the way they talk to him like a child, _tell an adult, tell someone tell_ anyone.

 

“I don’t want her to know,” he says. “That she’s hurt me. I don’t want her to give her that.” It’s the trick he learned with Dudley. If he stopped crying Dudley lost interest, and he suspects Umbridge won’t be different.

 

“But Harry,” Hermione protests, “this isn’t _right_ , this is—this is _abuse_!”

 

“No, it’s not,” Harry says, shortly. Ron shoots her a look like _leave it_ and she sighs.

 

“Then stop rising to her, _please_ ,” she says. “I know you think you’re being brave by yelling all these Voldemort—oh be quiet, Ron—things at her but you just get yourself hurt. There are better ways to go about doing this.”

 

“Maybe,” Harry says.

 

He watches her nose twitch like it always does when she’s faced with disagreement. “Then at least let me dress it.”

 

* * *

 

 Ginny.

 

Ginny makes him think that there are different types of scars. He feels like he has something on top of his skin that at once reaches for, and braces him from, her touch. In the empty classroom at night, when she tucks her bird fingers under his shirt, he flinches violently and pushes her away without thinking, without really understanding why.

 

Touching her is easier, uncomplicated, he wants to make her happy, he wants her to stay. He knows all the ways to make her come before he’s ever naked in front of her. She doesn’t ask. She’s a Weasley. She has seen him too-thin at the start of summers, bruised shoulders on the days he forgets to keep his jumpers on. Slow changes before Quidditch, dawdling until everyone’s left. His body is both untouched and battered.

In the tent, after Nagini, after _(ron leaves)_ , when Hermione slips into bed beside him, he realises for the first time how much more access he’s always granted to her _(and ron, who’s gone)_. Her touch is gentler, doesn’t do as much to him; a lower heat he can bear. When he’s inside Ginny it feels like coming home to a house on fire. When he’s inside Hermione it feels like just coming home.

Hermione, unlike Ginny, takes inventory of his body, the scars. He belongs to her and _(ron)_ in a way he will never, ever belong to anyone else. She asks. She’s Hermione so she puts her hand up and asks. She has never been satisfied with an open question. He tells her about the cupboard and the Dursleys and Alexander. She does not cry for him or act the way she did years ago with _I must not tell lies_. They are older now. There is a war. There are bigger things.

 

* * *

 

There is a scar on his chest to match the one on his forehead, after the Forest. In the dormitory, Ron is one who notices it. Hermione furrows her brow.

“That’s very interesting,” she says. “It must be something to do with the Horcrux. An entry and exit point. Dead bodies don’t have them.”

Ron traces it with his fingertip. “Does it hurt?”

Harry closes his eyes. “No.”

 

* * *

 

Harry meets Teddy for the first time just after the war.

He’s terrified. Some part of him thinks he’ll snap. Petunia was related to him, after all. There is frying-pan-wielding blood in him.

But he takes Teddy in his arms and _god._ Something fierce flickers in him and he thinks he will kill himself for this boy.

“You’re clucky, mate,” Ron remarks. Teddy reaches up to Harry’s forehead and presses a tiny finger with a tiny fingernail and tiny knuckles to the lightning bolt; the first of Harry’s marks. He watches as a matching one appears on Teddy’s forehead, the concentration in the baby’s now-green eyes.

Harry does not know why, but he is crying.

 

 

 


End file.
